I don’t know which is worse—the fact that after Spetember 11, our government has been reviewing our phone call histories, the fact that the three big telco vendors sold our records to the government (no big surprise there), or the fact that half the country doesn’t seem to give a shit. One of the key reasons I’m socially Democratic is because I am a firm believer in my civil liberties (those I still have left, that is.)

It’s not so much that the government is looking at who is calling who (when one caller is in a foreign country, from what they claim). It’s that this administration does everything under the nebulous veil of “National Security”, without consulting my representatives in Congress, something that is, um, AGAINST THE LAW. Or, at least, that’s what Mr Fahey taught me in public high school seventeen years ago.

When I was a sophomore in college, my parents sent me back to school in a silver Mazda pickup. They’d obviously considered the choice, and now that I look back at it, they were smart: I could move all my crap with it, I couldn’t put more than two other people in the cab with me (although I did haul quite a few people around in the back, in less-than-optimal comfort) and I made a pretty good second income moving people around the neighborhood between semesters. My father was kind enough to give it to me as a graduation present after college, and I think he knew that it would come in handy.

I had to sell it sometime around 1997 or so when the amount of oil I was adding each week eclipsed the amount of gas. Two little men showed up in a lowered teal Nissan and drove my little truck away to be chopped, bondoed, and painted primer gray. Since then, I’ve forced the cars that followed to fit the mold of all-purpose utility vehicle: I stuffed four sheets of plywood into the hatch of my CRX with four bags of ready-mix cement—you’d be surprised how much a Honda will hold. The year I bought the Scout, I hauled the debris of my basement demolition project to the dump in multiple pre-dawn trips. I think the Tortoise probably bore the brunt of my ambitions, though: hauling recycled brick in the trunk across Canton, sheets of drywall on the roof rack—hell, every stick of wood that went into my rowhome, and every bag of cement.

The Jeep has been great for moving building materials around, but where things like yard waste and carpeting are concerned, it’s not big enough and I can’t wash it out with a hose. And given the amount of garbage we’ve generated since we’ve been in this house, I think I’d be broke if I tried to haul it all myself. Our good friend Dave finally got tired of being shanghaiied into helping us haul trash for the umpteenth time, so he lent us Clifford the Big Red Truck on Wednesday.

When switching to a vehicle the length of a schoolbus, the technique of pre-visualization comes in real handy. Simple operations like navigating a parking lot take planning and nerves of steel. One doesn’t simply make a lane change, especially with a bedful of yard waste flapping around by the tailgate. Turning a corner brings one much closer to the folks in the opposite lane than they’re usually comfortable with (however, the look of terror on their faces is always good for a laugh.) The amount of respect one commands while driving such a truck at the rental office, though, makes up for any inconvenience. We rented the largest tiller at the garage, a 14-horsepower hydraulically powered beast, and within 15 minutes had turned over a 10’x20′ patch of grass into arable dirt.

After four trips to the local dump, the piles of leaf bags, small brush, elm bark, and construction debris all disappeared, and our yard began to look presentable again. In a final trip to the Lowe’s we picked up a shiny new grill to replace the hand-me-down that fell apart last year and assembled it in time to cook three filets to perfection last night.

This afternoon, I reluctantly turned the keys back over to Dave and we said our goodbyes to the Big Red Truck. I think after the Jeep’s time is up we’ll have to look into a pickup of our own, but I have to thank Dave again for letting me dream for a few brief, wonderful days.

Check out this quick audio interview with George Packer about his article in this week’s issue. The article covers a maverick officer’s successful attempt to lower the amount of violence in Tal Afar, one of the insurgency’s hot spots in Iraq, through unconventional (read: non-Army doctrine) methods. This article dovetails nicely with the book I’ve been reading, which stresses the desperate need for a new style of military: smaller groups of autonomous soldiers, tasked with the simultaneous role of security, nation-building, humanitarian aid, and training, instead of large Cold War-style troop movements or Rumsfeld’s high-tech, no-troops approach.

The article isn’t online, but interview is a good start. I may have to find this book as well.

I have a coffee can I’ve kept my assorted small junk in for years. The printing on the can has a copyright of 1984, which doesn’t accurately date the origin of the collection. I think I started collecting some of the stuff in the can in high school, when I was working at a mexican restaurant in my hometown. As anybody who works in food service knows, lots of money changes hands. (Anybody who still habitually re-arranges a sheaf of singles to all face the same way probably waited tables or worked in a bank.) I started switching out wheat pennies for my own pocket change when I saw them in the bottom of the till. At the bottom of the coffee can, I found 37 total, starting with a banged-up 1919 example and ending with a 1959. The most represented year is 1956 (7). Also from the restaurant days are two 1976 $2 bills, from a freaky guy who used to come in and pay for bowls of chili at lunchtime and try to pick up on me.

I have three 50-cent pieces (not so rare), two buffalo nickels of unknown vintage (everything but the profile of the indian and the word LIBERTY is worn off the front) and my favorite, a 1937 mercury dime. I also have an English five pence and two shilling piece. The shilling is smaller and more fussy, while the design on the back of the shilling is thick and bold, like a manhole cover. The man on the front of my German two-mark coin is pinched and constipated-looking, and his thin hair is combed off the back of his head.

I have a pile of buttons from the various military surplus pants and shorts I’ve owned over the years; one of the issues when owning 30-year-old old clothing is that the thread tends to be brittle and old. I always thought I’d get around to sewing them back on, but usually, I just put a belt on and wore them untill they fell apart.

There’s a quartet of NYC bullseye tokens, from when I was riding the S train between Penn Station and Grand Central on my way to and from college. Along with these I have a single pentagram token from a later era.

I have my father’s ID bracelet from the ’50’s. It has his (our) name engraved in a very elegant script. Unfortunately, it’s about four sizes too large for my wrist, so I look like a mafia goon when I wear it.

I made a silver ring in high school in jewelry class (I was padding out my transcript with as much “art” as I could so that I could get a Regents diploma which ultimately did me no good). We carved the shape from wax, cast it with silver, shaped and polished the result, then added a setting and a stone. The ring is a little too big for my finger and the stone gets in the way of everyday life, so it sits in the can.

My sophomore year, I had a friend in Admissions help me make a fake college ID. My alias is William Edwards, I was born in 1969, and I still have the shitty dork-style glasses from high school—this was right before I finally got a sense of style—but looking at it now, there’s no way I’d pass for a man of 21, let alone 18. There’s also a staff pass from the Cones and Rods show back in ’97 or ’98 (the closest I ever got to VIP anywhere) which I used to wander around during the show and not talk to anybody.

There are two buttons I’ve had for years. One is a shamrock, and I have no idea where it came from. The second is a maroon button that says DUGAN in white letters. My sister found it in the drawer of an antique store in upstate new York years ago. I had it on the lapel of a denim jacket for a while, and then on a hat for a while longer, until I was afraid I’d lose it altogether, so I put it in the can.

I have a bullet that fits the Czechoslovakian army rifle hanging in my father’s gun rack in New York. It’s old, stamped 1951, and is long and sharp.

I have two brass clips from a backpack I bought in Maine in the early 90’s. The backpack (probably) dates back to the first World War, as far as I can figure. It came with two very old and dried out leather straps, adjustable by unclipping each of the two brass clips and moving them up or down the strap and into new holes. I had to take the straps off when they finally broke, and someday I’ll buy the leather to replace them. I’ve used the backpack for years to hold my illustration portfolio.

I have an assortment of seashells from various trips to the beach-mostly scallop shells, mostly black, but there’s one beautiful white shell with flecks of red at the bottom. I don’t know which one came from where.

There’s a turquoise lapel pin from the Cloisters in New York City, someplace my father liked to take us as kids during Christmastime. I loved those trips as a kid. Going into the city always made me feel more grown-up and cosmopolitan, and the exhibits at the museum were beautiful and exotic. Plus, there was a guy in the parking lot who made some of the best chili dogs I’ve ever had.

I have a cap bomb I got from somewhere. It’s a small metal toy in the shape of a bomb, with fins and everything. There’s a weight at the front which is spring-loaded to the back, allowing a kid to put several caps (do they even sell caps anymore? answer: yes) between the weights and throw the bomb in the air. The weight and aerodynamic shape of the bomb ensures it will come down on the front, and fire off the caps—preferrably behind the back of the intended victim target.

There’s a bunch of other stuff in there too, but some of it is boring, and some of it I don’t have time to write about. But there’s a look into the brain of your author, and what he finds worth keeping around.

I find this story so sad, on so many levels. When I was a kid, I used to love to read about fighter aces, and I looked up to them as heroes. I’m saddened by the fact that this man, who (I thought) stood for honor and courage, sold himself out for a fucking Rolls Royce, a house, and some antiques.

The five or so regular readers here are probably wondering where I’ve gone. After all, I’m working from home, so I should have lots of time to write, right?

The sad truth is that I feel like I have less time to write than before. Between three current projects that actually pay money, our kitchen installation (countertops are going in as I peck away) and life in general, I think the folks here at the Lockardugan Estates have less free time than they did two months ago.

There have been several folks who have made our lives easier this past month, as we hunt for food out of the boxes in our dining room and wash dishes in the bathroom. The Cauzzis generously offered their kitchen during our demolition phase downstairs, and we’ve taken them up on many delicious warm dinners. They are also raising three tiny babies, so we’ve tried to be respectful of their time and help out if we can. When Todd asked me if I could take a look at their front windows before the cold weather swept into Baltimore, I took him up on it without thinking twice.

Indulge me for a minute as I bring up a little Dugan History here. During my junior year of college, I got a side job painting the house of one of my professors, which made eating and drinking (primarily drinking) more economically feasible. I spent the fall of 1992 on her porch, scraping and painting the ceiling, listening to Pearl Jam and Nirvana from the nearby Loyola dorms and working until the dusk made it too dark to see. As word got out in the neighborhood about the student handyman, I got another job after that working on her friend M’s house, shifting to interior work for the winter and back outside in the spring. She liked having me there, and we settled into a comfortable routine during the season—I’d come out and work for four hours, and she’d cook us both dinner. We became friends outside of the work I was doing on her house, and she went so far as to host a graduation party in her backyard for me.

After leaving college with a less-than-practical degree in Illustration, I kept housepainting, switching back and forth between houses, getting more and more involved as time went on. Simple painting gave way to repair carpentry, removing shingle siding, basic roofing, restoring sash windows, running air conditioning ductwork, insulating, and eventually gutting/rehabbing a bathroom in a third neighbor’s house. I worked in that neighborhood for the better part of two years, and while I thought I did a pretty decent job, I was a lousy businessman. After two years I had to give it up to seek a better-paying job doing design.

Working at the Cauzzis’ yesterday reminded me of that first fall I spent outdoors, working hard to keep warm and race the sun. I pulled the storms out, scraped and glazed the windows, and got a coat of primer to dry with an hour of sunlight to spare. H. made me lunch, which I finally ate at about 3, and I headed back out to put a coat of paint on the windowframes. As I was on the ladder, I was thinking about all the people in my life who have helped me along the way, and about the simple pleasure of helping my friends. I don’t think I’ve done a very good job of tipping the scale back, but I’d like to think I made a good start yesterday. So, thanks to W. and M. for keeping me employed (and fed) back in the day, and thanks to the Cauzzis for letting me pay it forward.

This is an animation of my grandparents’ house between a photo taken in the mid 50’s and another taken in the early 90’s. I put it together about 5 or 6 years ago and forgot all about it until recently.

This is the best commentary I’ve heard so far from anybody, and I think it should be reprinted everywhere. (via)

Wow. Right on.

“The director of the Federal Emergency Management Agency said Thursday those New Orleans residents who chose not to heed warnings to evacuate before Hurricane Katrina bear some responsibility for their fates.” Tell that to the thousands of people who live below the poverty line and can’t afford to leave, asshole. Isn’t it your job to, um, figure out where they should go?

Update: This is disturbing…